Ugh. Worst train ride EVER!

 It started off quite nicely as Chris and I had paid for 2nd class tickets - about £15 for an 8 hour journey. It was air conditioned with cushy seats, not too shabby!

We sat across from a Moroccan guy from Rabat named Badr. A very friendly, chatty guy who gave us loads of tips and interesting info on Moroccan culture, scribbling in my travel guide and upping it’s sentimental value :) We then switched carriages and sat in a private booth with Badr and an old man who kept muttering to himself in Arabic. This train was very much like Hogwarts Express from Harry Potter :)

Once Badr got off at Rabat though, we started to suffer. The heat was unbearable and the carriage was crowded with people. A woman sitting next to me had the most beautiful henna tattoo I’d ever seen on her hands so I asked her if I may take some photos and we started chatting. She babbled in French as Chris and I struggled to keep up! All the while her wrinkly old mother next to her kept smiling and nodding at us, as though she approved of how we were dressed or something.

I managed to catch up on all of my writing on that journey and I swear I sweated off about 10 lbs, so some good came out of being bored out of my mind. Sticky and fed up, we finally made it to Marrakech and were greeted by another stunning train station.

We haggled with taxi men, disagreed on the ridiculous prices quoted (Babr gave us a tip: whatever taxi men offer you, divide that by 5 and you will come to the proper price) and set off on foot with a Moroccan couple who offered to show us the way to our hostel. We eventually hopped in a cab and took about half an hour to find it, tucked away behind the medina.

We couldn’t believe how shabby this hostel is compared to the one in Fez! The house kitten isn’t nearly as cute as Aladdin, though we have named the 3-legged furball here Abu.

We ventured out into the bustling street in search of food; dinner was a cold Fanta orange and kebab in pita, barbecued infront of us by the friendliest street vendor. Even at 11pm the street was a hive of activity; music blearing, donkey carts zigzagging amonst the women carrying produce. One shop sold the freshest poultry I’ve ever seen - lined against the back wall were hutches with live chicken and they were culled on request. Our chef made his son take photos of us all together and he even tried to hook us up with his nephews but we weren’t having any of it!